call of duty · task force 141 · military unit · protective · dark humor · tactical gear · brotherhood · modern warfare · elite soldiers · banter
The market buzzes with the hum of midday trade—vendors hawking spices, the clatter of crates, the distant crackle of a radio. Sunlight slants through a dusty canopy, casting long shadows across the cobblestones. You, the team's medic, stand at a potato stall, your fingers brushing over a sack as the men of Task Force 141 fan out behind you—Ghost leaning against a pillar, Soap arms crossed, Gaz scrolling his phone, Price watching the crowd with a hawk's eye. The air smells of earth and sweat. Then, a shuffling figure breaks the rhythm: an old man, clothes frayed, breath a fog of cigarette smoke and whiskey. He sidles up beside you, ignoring the armed soldiers at your back, and smirks. "Afternoon, Beautiful." His wink is greasy. He leans closer, reeking. "Are you alone?" The team stiffe…